


Backslash

by vinyl_octopus



Series: Tumblr prompt fills [14]
Category: Cabin Pressure
Genre: Established Relationship, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Serious Injuries, not actually life threatening
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-02
Updated: 2014-06-02
Packaged: 2018-02-03 02:54:30
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,131
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1728473
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vinyl_octopus/pseuds/vinyl_octopus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tracionn asked for a Martin/Douglas "moment" dealing with an injury to Douglas's back.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Backslash

**Author's Note:**

  * For [tracionn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tracionn/gifts), [Linguini](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Linguini/gifts).



Martin bit back a lecture about the consequences of setting up illegal airfield bars in abandoned buildings. Douglas’s back was such a mess of cuts and bruises that he barely knew where to start with the salve and gauze the hospital had sent them home with. Sighing, he pressed an apologetic kiss to Douglas’s shoulder for the pain he was about to inflict, then set to work applying the ointment to the worst of the damage.

Douglas only flinched at the first two swipes, after that, either the numbing properties of the salve were better than Martin had expected or Douglas had simply got used to the stinging ache. There was no way these injuries wouldn’t scar, but Martin could not yet mourn the loss of beloved, milk-soft skin when, for now, treating them, and feeling the twitch of muscles under his fingers, was a reminder that Douglas had survived. He put a last extra dab along a particularly vicious wound that striped right across Douglas's spine from the top of his right shoulder blade to beneath his ribcage on the left. Douglas  _did_  shudder then; a quiet moan released through the pillow in which he had buried his face.

Martin wiped his hands on the towel he’d brought in and hovered a hand over his partner, trying to find an uninjured patch of skin. He had to settle for Douglas’s forearm. “It’s all right.” He rubbed soothingly, the coarse hair fluffing up under his palm. “The painkillers should start working soon. Can you just—” he tapped gently at the soft edge of Douglas’s shoulder “—sit up for a moment. I need to get this gauze on right.”

Douglas shifted stiffly, finally managing to lever himself almost upright. They both hissed as the movement caused half the cuts to reopen, seeping blood mingling with the goo of the ointment. Douglas’s face lost what little colour it had regained from lying face-down.

“Here.” Martin moved the dining chair closer to the bed. “Sit on this, back to front. I’ll get another one.” He left Douglas to arrange himself while he got a second chair, then settled himself behind Douglas so he could see and reach clearly.

The “just a moment” he’d promised Douglas the process would take was more like twenty minutes as he tried to be as gentle as possible…and to tape to the gauze in a way that didn’t mean catching raw skin or open wounds.

By the end, as Martin taped a last piece across his lower back to protect against the rub of his waistband, Douglas was trembling slightly. Martin’s hands weren’t entirely steady either, now he’d finished playing nurse. Douglas’s head was bowed against his arms, propped on the chair back, and his breaths were slow and deliberate. Martin pressed another kiss against Douglas’s nape and ran his fingers through the still-dust-caked, sweat-damp locks at Douglas’s temple. “Rest for a bit, I’m going to make some tea.” He looked his lover over; clad in nothing but his softest pyjama bottoms and thick socks, goosebumps were already rising along his arms. Even a sheet had been too much of an irritant, laid lightly over him in the hospital. “I’ll turn the heating up, too.”

In the kitchen, while the kettle boiled, Martin gave in to the temptation to bury his face in his hands. He’d be hearing the sounds of creaking metal and sirens for the rest of his life, he was sure. At least Douglas had been alone; first one to arrive on what he’d admitted was a recon mission for the biannual location shift of the airfield bar. Martin had heard the crash from the Portakabin where he was still finishing the day’s paperwork, but thought little of it until he saw Dirk racing past the window and the distant flash of emergency lights. He’d got to the collapsed hut just as they were pulling the last of the metallic rubble off Douglas, who was coated in grime and dust, barely conscious and silent.

They’d kept him in overnight at the hospital: removing bits of detritus from his flesh; checking for worse, unseen injuries; monitoring for shock. That was yesterday. Douglas had been allowed home this morning. This was the first time Martin had seen the injuries for himself, and he was reminded anew how close he had come to losing Douglas.

He gritted his teeth against the threatening shakes of shock and poured the boiling water into both mugs and all over the worktop. He dropped the kettle to the bench with a clatter and gripped the edge of the worktop as he gasped for air, eyes tight shut. The slow drip of cooling water from the counter to the floor was actually calming; a metronome for his breaths. He recovered enough to load both cups with sugar and milk, then mopped half-heartedly at the puddles of water before turning to take the tea back into the bedroom.

Douglas was standing in the kitchen doorway, looking as wretched and apologetic as he’d ever seen him. He’d obviously seen Martin’s momentary collapse, and it was fairly obvious that only the door frame was holding him up. Martin deposited both cups on the kitchen table and moved to support Douglas into the room, only  _just_  remembering not to loop an arm around his waist. It was a sign of how much pain Douglas was in that he didn’t resist or offer blistering commentary on the full functionality of his legs.

Martin lowered him cautiously to one of the pine chairs at the table, noting the flinching way Douglas leaned himself forward, elbows on the table; clearly avoiding the slightest chance of brushing his wounds against the moulded spokes of the chair-back. Martin sat opposite him and slid one of the mugs across, wrapping his hands around his own.

“I’m sorry.” Douglas’s voice was a husky croak.

Martin shook his head, still not entirely steady. “Don’t. I know.”

Douglas raised his head as if it were made of lead. “I’m not going to be able to fly for a bit.”

Martin snorted, though it was anything but funny. He took a swig of ludicrously sugary tea. “Sweetheart, you can barely move; I’d rather worked out you wouldn’t be sitting in Gerti for a bit.”

Douglas sipped at his own tea, wincing at the sweetness and evidently unable to hold back the “ _Urgh_ ” of distaste.

It was enough to make Martin relax a fraction. “Sorry…I needed it. Thought you might, too.”

Douglas glanced at the kitchen, clearly calculating whether it was worth the effort it would take to get up and make his own.

“I’ll do it,” Martin said with a smile, getting up and refilling the kettle. You just sit there and….stay out of trouble.”

**Author's Note:**

> This started out as a 3-sentence meme fic for tracionn but a comment from linguini17 encouraged me to get the rest of it out of my head. So thank you both!


End file.
